Former VP Cheney champions water boarding:

“Lynn and the girls never minded it”

            In a tense, candid interview that ranged from concealed Halliburton stock to weapons-grade plutonium, a defensive former-Vice President Dick Cheney praised the usage of water boarding during his tenure, calling it “a no-brainer communication technique” when dealing with aloof terrorist suspects and criminal masterminds.           

            “This is simply the most efficient means of extracting important information from unwilling enemy combatants not protected by the Geneva Convention,” he said. “Interrogating known terrorists, like child rearing, can be very demanding and stressful.” 

            Mr. Cheney admitted having firsthand knowledge on the effectiveness of this technique—which simulates drowning and produces a severe gag reflex, making the subject believe his or her death is imminent while ideally not causing permanent physical damage—because he employed it liberally in his own home while raising two daughters, Elizabeth and Mary.

            Referring to his family as a “close-knit cadre with no secrets,” he wondered aloud if we shouldn’t be encouraging more parents to experiment with alternative child-rearing strategies in response to the “deprave and morally corrupt dystopia of reality television and internet porn” ruining American values.

            “Should any self-respecting parent sit by idly watching their children walk down the wrong path? I guarantee this—Lizzie and Mar never cut class or skipped out on their homework.”

            

Thorny Misgivings: An Open Letter to Bret Michaels

In your prime as front man for the legendary L.A. hairspray band, Poison, I thought of you, Mr. Brett Michaels, as the venerable sage and poet laureate of the 80s Glam Rock world. I marveled at your deftness and flair for capturing the human condition with your poignant, evocative songs, none more so than when you penned the power ballad masterpiece in which you claimed, “every rose has its thorn.”


Now I'm no expert on roses and have less than a layman's concept for the intricacy and nuance of horticulture. Further, the few times that I have handled roses, in my memory, involved navigating prickly little thorns. So, it is no wonder that upon first hearing your rock opus circa 1989, I was moved to agree with your thesis—yes, indeed, every rose does have its thorn. Unfortunately, once I examined more deeply your baseless, dishonest analogy regarding cowboys and emphatic, repetitive, and ultimately rhetorically flawed use of "every," your argument, Mr. Michaels, sir, fell shamefully apart, thus calling into question the very premise of this song.

And I quote: "just like every cowboy sings a sad, sad song, every rose has its thorn." Well, let me assure you, dear reader, not every cowboy sings a sad, sad song. In fact, cowboys have a rich, layered tradition of musicianship that explores a wide array of emotions well beyond the morose, including songs about being home on the range or rockabying sweet baby James or visiting towns in west Texas (El Paso, to be exact) where you can fall in love with Mexican girls.

Thus, the fact that every cowboy does not necessarily sing a sad, sad song, I submit, undermines your assertion that every rose has a thorn. We cannot say with any degree of certainty whether every rose does or does not have its thorn, and so I feel it necessary to call into question the integrity of your thesis and am left to wonder where else you, sir, have led us astray: Maybe the unskinny bop doesn't just blow you away. Do you really want us to give you something to believe in? I now sincerely doubt that you don't need nothing but a good time or that you won't forget me, baby. We're left to take you at your word, and I want to believe you, Mr. Michaels, sir, but right now your word isn't worth the paper it is written on.

NASA Confirms Mars Suitable for Future Habitation. Elton John Outraged.

A recent study released by NASA and University of California astrophysicists has prompted speculation that Mars will one day sustain future generations of human life.

Sir Elton John, however, is having none of this.

In a tersely worded, yet melodic, statement released in anticipation of these findings, the self-described “Rocket Man” cited a general lack of family-oriented resources and frequent inclement weather as reasons to question the use of discretionary funds to pursue life on the Red Planet.

“Mars ain’t the kind of place to raise your kids,” said the five-time Grammy Award winner and 1994 Rock and Roll Hall of Fame inductee. “In fact, it’s cold as hell.”

Independent research confirmed the singer-songwriter’s latter point: the temperature on Mars drops to -220 F in the winter.

John, a 2004 Kennedy Center honoree who has sold more than 250 million records career during a career spanning over 40 years, also wondered if irregular access to educational facilities and child care would cause concern for parents should they decide to migrate to Mars.

“There’s [just] no one there to raise them if you did,” said the longtime LGBT champion and AIDS activist.

In response, NASA experts called John’s credentials into question, a fact the Crocodile-Rocker-turned-dilettante-space-explorer conceded, “All the science, I don’t understand. It’s just my job five days a week.” Despite his staunch opposition to any planned migrations to Mars, John said he would participate in celebrations honoring such an historic scientific achievement. In fact, former cocaine addict pledged to end his 20+ years of sobriety to mark the occasion of a Martian touchdown.

"I’m gonna be high as a kite by then," he said.

NASA experts, meanwhile, would not offer a definitive timeline for when humans could begin the immigration process. When asked to comment on a potential schedule, U.C. astrophysicist Dr. Ronald Herschmiller said, “I think it’s going to be a long, long time.”

How We're Reconnecting With Old Friends

Everything But The Logic

Back in 1994, Everything but the Girl left its mark on the scene with a catchy electronica-inspired dancehall ballad of love and longing in which the vocalist claims to miss his/her lover "like the deserts miss the rain..."
Poetic, sensual, provocative...except for one thing:
Deserts don't miss the rain. They're fucking deserts. By definition, the climate is arid and either intensely hot or cold. Even the wettest deserts get less than 10 inches of precipitation per year. Further, the flora and fauna, having adapted to the relatively harsh environs, would be serverly damaged should they be exposed to excessive rainfall.
So, if we're to accurately conceptualize Everything's lyrics, the song is really saying, "I am completely equipped to handle life without you and miss you so little that I would actually be destroyed if I see you too much."

Down’s Syndrome Man Strikes Familiar Chord

Although Gary Quintano transferred to the Sonora Wal-Mart less than three weeks ago, local residents claim to find something very familiar about the 24-year-old shopping cart specialist born with Down’s Syndrome.

“There’s just something about him that's so familiar,” says Starbucks barista David Germaine. “The first time I saw him, I felt like I knew him from somewhere.”

Germaine is hardly alone.

“I guess he just has one of those faces,” confirms Seamus de Leon. In fact, when he first saw Quintano last Thursday while the latter was towing a row of carts through the Wal-Mart parking lot, de Leon ran up from behind to give him a friendly bear hug only to find himself in an altercation.

“Hey, what the fuck? It’s me, Seamus. You don’t remember me?” said de Leon, describing the encounter with Quintano that left the 19-year-old stay-at-home dad scratched, bitten, and more than a little confused. “Fucker is strong. Like retard strong.”

Quintano, who despite a surplus of 21st chromosomes lives a comfortable, fulfilling life, would not comment on the encounter.

When told of Quintano’s condition, de Leon remained skeptical, “Then he must have a twin brother, or something, that busses tables at the Straw Hat Pizza in Twain Harte. I swear it’s, like, his fucking doppelganger.”

I Wouldn’t Fuck You with Anne Coulter’s Dick

Part I in a multi-part series commenting on today’s political and cultural climate.

Last year, former North Carolina Senator John Edwards was exposed as having an extramarital affair with filmmaker Rielle Hunter during his most recent presidential bid. After repeatedly denying allegations and engineering a massive cover up to avoid scandal, Edwards recently admitted to fathering a child with Hunter, his former campaign videographer, conceiving their love child while his now-deceased wife Elizabeth Edwards was undergoing treatment for ovarian cancer.

Normally it’s hard for me to get worked up over a little extracurricular marital fling, especially at the risk of simplifying such behavior by labeling it “wrong” or “weak,” or perpetuating our culture’s puritanical, obsessive attempts to pathologize human sexuality. Further, I don’t blame any person for trying to cover up private carnal exploits, knowing how unforgiving the public can be.

But, tonight, a few Wild Turkey shots and PBR chasers deep, I find myself in the mood to, ahem, lay some pipe. To take a stand. To hold you accountable, Senator, for your irresponsible actions.

Let me be clear, sir. Fuck whomever you want, whenever you want, however you want. You needed a little loving, maybe blow off some steam during a grueling pressure cooker of a presidential primary? I understand. You lied to protect your image and shelter your family or the Democratic Party from negative publicity? I get it. You even allegedly filmed a sex movie with Hunter, who was noticeably pregnant in the video—hell, I’d vote for that.

I do have one simple request, sir: Wear a fucking condom!

Bare-dicking? Really? In this day and age? With an exploding population moving towards critical mass and all kinds of funky venereal diseases floating out there? You have to be fucking kidding me. What kind of example are you setting, sir? Did your parents not sign the permission slip for your junior high sex ed. class? (Or, perhaps they taught abstinence-only in the bible-belted southern community of your youth?)

I’m sure Hunter wasn’t the only woman you slipped the high hard one while on the campaign trail. Did you bare-dick them, too, sir? I shutter to think of the crusty, viral stalagmites growing on the shaft of your manhood. C’mon, Senator. Too rich and powerful to get a venereal disease? You play with fire, you’re gonna get burned—at least when you pee. If you don’t care about your own health, bag it for the sake of the planet—or at the very least, pull out.

Frankly, Senator Edwards, I wouldn’t fuck you with Anne Coulter’s dick.

What Husbands Do With Their Free Time

Revenge

Albert Gaines killed Marty Henderson. It wasn’t an accident per se, though he certainly did not purposefully intend for it to happen. Still the court ruled in favor of murder charges because Gaines, a noted disrepute and troublemaker, was a “lost cause” with a rap sheet over seventeen pages long even though he was barely eighteen. That Henderson was in the wrong place at the wrong time, caught in the crossfire during a liquor store robbery, meant little to the prosecutorial staff. They threw the book at him and deservedly so.

At his sentencing, Henderson’s mother was allowed to address Gaines, who showed no remorse or emotion whatsoever, even though the judge intimated it could affect his sentence. Mrs. Henderson pointed out that if given the opportunity, she would kill Gaines herself—in fact, she promised that one day she would get her revenge. She swore it; she would kill him. For he clearly did not know what it meant to be a human being, to be loved, to love. So, she said, he may as well die. And she would be the one to do it.

And with that Mrs. Henderson spent the next three years of her life searching and plotting, for she knew she would not rest until she had her revenge. She read and traveled around the country and in the East, all the while composing long letters in her head filled with rageful promises and vengeful pledges.

Then she came about a solution. And for the first time in years she slept.

In the spring after she returned, she would sit in the shade of an acacia tree in her backyard quietly attended to by a warm, blooming breeze and write letters to Albert Gaines in prison. They were filled with her pain, but also with questions for him and stories about Marty. Eventually she told Gaines everything she remembered about her son: about his first pet—a cat named Abbyola whom Marty found on a bike ride to the Cheese Factory; his high school sweetheart, Julianna, who made him oatmeal raisin cookies and broke his heart; his postcards home from summer camp which he signed “Love Marty” and always in parenthesis wrote”(your son)” as if she might forget. She wrote about Marty failing his driver’s test because he didn’t yield to an emergency vehicle and about her feeling so bad that she bought him and his friend a bottle of tequila and some 7UP; she wrote about his unending curiosity for life; she wrote about his heart.

For two years, Gaines never wrote back. Henderson wasn’t sure if her letters were even being read. But she sent them every week anyway, because she enjoyed feeling close to her son—the one person who, at a glance, could read her mind, could see to her core. Sometimes she talked out loud to Marty, but mostly she wrote about her memories and tried to wrap her mind around the enormity of her pain, as if understanding it might take away some of her quiet, biting grief.

* * *

One day, a letter arrived in the mail. It was from Gaines. It sounded tentative and defensive, rambling and wayward. But Henderson wrote back anyway, responding to his questions and starting a weekly correspondence with Gaines that continued for the next seven years. In his letters, he gradually began to talk about himself. He thanked her for her honesty and inquisitiveness, but also for the shame and sadness and guilt that her letters helped him feel. He told her that he now understood the quality of love a mother has for her child, a love he’d never before known, “like ripples in a pond, the initial splash of love radiates outward, gently pushing against the broken leaves and twigs that happen to float by.” He’d been numbed by drugs and anger for so long, his emotions completely shut down, that he’d forgotten how to feel. But now he found himself moved to tears by the gentle morning sun chasing away the unknowing, lonely darkness or when watching a vee of returning gulls migrate home for the summer or in his prison cell the night he received his high school diploma. Even though he’d been in prison for more than a decade, he wrote, for the first time in his life he had begun to feel free.

* * *

When Gaines went before the parole board for what would be the final time, Henderson was invited to attend and was asked to address the inmate who had killed her son during a botched robbery over twelve years ago. She stood and spoke to both Gaines and the court, telling them the following:

“Twelve years ago when I stood at your hearing, you were a brash, arrogant, unrepentant thug who had taken my child,” she said, her voice calm as tears trickled down her face and neck. “I told you, I swore, that I would kill you, Albert Gaines…And I succeeded. I killed you. I killed that young, cold, heartless child who took my son. He’s dead. That child would have been kept alive by my hatred, so I killed him with my love, with my heart. In his place is you, Al, a grown man with a second chance to live your life. I forgive you for killing my son. I free you from that burden and hope you will find the way to free yourself.”

She wiped her tears with the palms of her hand, turned, and walked out of the courtroom. She did not look at the judge or the parole board or Albert. She did not make eye contact with anyone seated in the audience. When she reached the door, she did not turn around or even glance back over her shoulder. She did not stay to hear the verdict or talk to reporters or answer questions. She did not wait to be consoled or admired. She had said her piece, had shared her burden.

And with that, Mother Henderson walked down the courthouse steps and back into the world, letting the summer wind tousle her hair and dress while turning her face to the blue, cloudless sky, closing her eyes, and feeling the warmth of the sun wash over her. She inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with the dewy, thick scent of cut grass and turned soil. She walked through the courtyard lined with irises and lilies and neatly trimmed hedges and into the teeming bustle of the streets filled with engines purring and shoe heels scuffing and people laughing. She walked past a schoolyard filled with children screaming and playing and wondering. She walked to the gentle, flowing creek where she had spread Marty’s ashes so many years ago, took off her shoes and, letting the hem of her dress drag in the water, waded to the far side where she sat in the shade of an oak tree, closed her eyes, and held her son.

THE END

Blue-Collar Types

I’ve had key rings the size of silver dollars,

entire conversations in 10-codes,

calloused hands caked with grit.

I’ve washed vomit off urinal cakes,

mopped piss off countertops,

plunged toilets clogged with shit.

I’ve swept, scrubbed, and stacked,

placed, lifted and lain.

Learned the hard way to measure

and then measured again.

I’ve drilled, installed, chiseled, and grinded,

broke in, broke down, broke off

rekeyed, restocked, recycled, rebinded.

I never minded.

49ers Haiku

Niner football in

the 80s—more adored in

the Bay than cocaine.

Thailand Missive II

Hello family,

How quickly the time goes. I was just barely a week in. Now, I’ve not even a week left. This continues to be one of the best trips for me, adventurous and indulgent, challenging and exhausting. Having so much fun and feeling great. Indomitable. Thought to weigh in again, to say hi and send my love and tell you that I’m thinking of you. And to riff for a spell, to chew on the whirlwind. Spin a few yarns.

Last time, I was midway through my time on Koh Samui in the Gulf of Thailand. After hanging out for a couple more days, I hopped a catamaran for the simple two-hour trip to Koh Tao, an experience that bears mentioning only because we got caught in a bitch of a monsoon midway through. What began as an easy ride through choppy, white-capped water turned terrifying and then torturous. As the boat pitched violently (and I mean VIOLENTLY) in the roiling water and enormous waves slammed against us on all sides, it took me a moment to realize why the crew began furiously handing out plastic bags to many of the passengers around me. When the heaving and retching commenced, I just closed my eyes, turned my ipod on FULL BLAST, and crawled headlong into a shiny, happy place (which included a giant mattress made of Nutella-smothered pancakes) for one of the longest hours of my trip.

But that hell was so worth it. Once on Koh Tao, I settled in Ao Leuk, a tiny, secluded cove on the southeastern corner of the island with 15 or so rustic bungalows dotting the hillside and reggae covers of pop music playing in the open-air eatery on the beach (who knew Time After Time would make such a smooth transition). And the snorkeling was amazing. Gorgeous. Several hundred meters of bejeweled coral reef on either side of the cove with a rainbow assortment of fish, all glittering in the sunlight. It was so good, in fact, I stayed an extra night.

By mid-July, the islands are crawling with tourists (infested, really), almost exclusively European. I met only a handful of American travelers prior to coming to Chiang Mai (maybe that’s just my trip or the places I went. Maybe it has to do with economics. Not sure. On the positive, my pidgin English has improved immensely). Rest well, my darlings, lest you worry—the “ugly westerner” thrives, kept alive and well by our Euro brethren, a surprisingly dour, humorless lot demanding prompt service with finger snaps, or worse, the gaggles of rowdy, obnoxious toughs revving their motorbikes up and down the main drags and blathering on about “getting pissed.” To be fair, I’ve met many fun, interesting, stony Euros and made some true friends, but on the whole, I've ended up lying low with Thai folks at every chance, because they’re mellow and because the know how to shut the fuck up. Whereas Bangkok had left me a little guarded with the locals—the Thais there are definitely edgy, city folk, seeming to be either hustling for a buck or taciturn to the point of unfriendliness (except the ladyboys, who are rather aggressively chatty and grabby, fascinating endlessly over wher I fram and If I wan gilfen…..Hey, even if you’re not going to the party, it’s still nice to be invited.)—the many Thai people I’ve met since have been super easy. My favorite one, Kem, a restaurant server and musician, learned pretty decent English by singing and playing American pop music, especially his favorite: John Denver (why, yes, we did talk about Colorado). In general, Thais are pretty cool. Not particularly demonstrative or effusive. Just easy. Soft. Unhurried. Not in their heads. My ex-pat friend who lives in Bangkok describes them as intellectually incurious. I’m not sure if that’s true (though we weren’t exactly deconstructing Nietzsche). More so, they are shy and modest. Demure. Sedate. With irrepressible smiles. And they laugh so easily. I will miss their vibe when I leave.

After fleeing the islands, I passed through Bangkok and headed to Chiang Mai, the provincial capital of the north. For the uninitiated, Chiang Mai is to Bangkok like the Bay Area is to Los Angeles (and by that I mean the ruinous, dystopian Los Angeles in Bladerunner). Less congested or polluted. Less paved over. Way less edgy and frenetic. Less of a scene. Just kinda cooler—both more temperate and trying less hard.

Though I must confess to digging Bangkok a lot, thus far, Chiang Mai has been more my speed. I arrived by train in the morning, awakening in time for the last hour or so of the trip through a gently rolling, forested landscape that slowly gave way to an expansive valley of rice fields and small villages surrounded by tree-lined mountains in the distance shrouded in mist, all impossibly lush and colored innumerable shades of green.

I took a room at a guesthouse near the night market and spent my first day roaming around the city then sat ringside at the muay thai fights that night. Along with the 400 baht I won betting with the Dutch fellas I was sitting and drinking with, the evening was highlighted by two chick fights on the undercard. Best action of the night. They were ferocious. Like tigers. One got knocked through the ropes, nearly ending up in my lap (a souvenir for a lucky fan), before clawing her way back into the ring for the win. Hell hath no fury…

Yesterday, I rented a motorbike to begin exploring the area [no more shirt cape and cowboy hat. I was a helmeted, model minority. A gentleman round eye], heading northwest to visit Doi Suthep, a beautiful 16^th century mountaintop Buddhist monastery overlooking Chiang Mai and the surrounding valley. Besides being the holiest shrine in the north, Doi Suthep, I learned, is also known (infamous) for the many bells and gongs on the temple grounds which visitors are allowed to ring, and do so incessantly. Still, the view and the grounds (including the 306 steps leading to the entrance) were brilliant. Continuing up the mountain, I stopped at Phumping, the king’s winter palace (a term used loosely, as it looks more like a collection of retirement condos on well-manicured grounds) and then drove to Doi Pui, the nearby Hmong village for lunch. Now, I didn't expect much; however, any miniscule hopes of a quaint, authentic mountain village experience were dashed as I rode into town and was greeted by myriad satellite dishes atop the clusters of rusting tin-roofed shanties and a main drag lined with stores selling tourist chotchkies. Nothing like the sight of children huddled around a television playing Nintendo Mario Bros. to alter the timbre of my neighborhood walk, savaging any last remnants of romance I may have harbored. Gotta go deeper into the mountains to have a deeper experience, I suppose. Maybe next time. Then again, the papaya salad was outstanding, even while costing me several layers of skin on my tongue by requesting “Pet” (Thai for spicy). After an amazing motorbike ride back home down the steep, winding mountain road of switchbacks and s-curves, I headed back out on the town, eventually capping off the night by winning 500 baht off my American tablemates at the nightly muay thai fights. Something about sweaty, narrow-hipped men kneeing and elbowing each other into submission that just makes sense to me. I’m picking winners nonstop these days. Ushering in the bigness. Riding the hot streak in too many ways to explain.

Today, I rode my motorbike into the hinterlands to Sam Kampaeng, a natural hot springs about 40 kilometers through the back roads southeast of Chiang Mai. A Marky spa day. A vacation from my vacation: Soaked in the mineral bath, got an hour-long foot massage and then a Thai massage—if you've never had one, thai massage is less “normal” oil massage than an exquisite blend of wrestling holds, Vulcan death grips, and meat tenderizing that leaves you feeling both relaxed and invigorated. Like most people, I’ve taken to them rather handsomely. At $6 or so an hour (with tip), it might be the best deal in a country chock full of good deals.

Anyway, it seems I’m running out of days here well before things to do. Still writing multiple times a day, though I’ve not finished reading a single book. I’ll be returning to Bangkok in a day or two to sip a few beers with my ex-pat friend, hopefully take one of his krav maga classes, and continue my shopping at the massive weekend market (God damn, I do love to haggle. At some point, I realized I don’t even really want any of this shit—it’s just shit—so much as I want to work a bargain for this shit. Out there earning my Jewcard, my dearies….“my money lucky; bring you many customer.”)

But I digress.

Just wanted to say hi and send my love. Hope this email finds you well. I’ll be home soon and will see you when I do.

Thailand Missive I

Greetings and Salutations,

It's only been a week since I touched down in Bangkok, yet already this trip has been amazing, engaging and challenging, fascinating and full. Thought I'd take a step back to check in and say hi, but also to pass along my love and riff for a second.

After 24 hours of travel, I spent the first few days acclimating to Bangkok, adjusting to the time but mostly remembering how to be a traveler again. It's been since Costa Rica that I've taken a trip of any substance. So I've slowly remembered how get over myself-- how to get over the fear of being lost or unsure or timid. Or rude (fucking tuk-tuk drivers). Remembering how not to have an agenda or place to be or something to do. Silly things, like remembering how to order food by pointing and nodding. Or how sometimes your best move it to put down the camera and just take it all in. Remembering the simple pleasures of discovering things about a new place. Not just the obvious ways cultures differ (the only-in-Asia shopping malls and plazas, or the harrowing, first-person Frogger experience of crossing a street), but also the little ways they do familiar things differently:  cigarette packs with pictures of a sallow, concave-chested old man hooked up to machines in lieu of a surgeon general's warning; Latino flavored potato chips amongst the cuttlefish and ramen and seaweed snacks at the 7-11 (collect 3 upc codes and you can send away for a free hairnet); the endless stream of teen and 20-something Thai hipsters rocking the Pat Benatar/lead singer from Goo Goo Dolls hair without a trace of irony or absurdism--one of many, many ways countries unselfconsciously devour and regurgitate western culture. At times it's like I'm walking around in a never-ending Mentos commercial.

In some ways, Bangkok is how everyone described it: choked with pollution, frenetic, seeming to have its own grotesque logic. It's in the day that you see the scars of a city that is overwhelmed with fumes and mold and rust and trash, while lacking any coherent identity or organization beyond unchecked urban sprawl....But then the night comes. And everything changes. The decay fades into the darkness, giving way to a pulsing, writhing metropolis teeming with action and life--food, commerce, people, music, all outlined in neon and glistening with sweat. It's unlike any other place I've seen. Such a visceral experience to walk the streets of Bangkok at night. The sultry carnival.

For the record, it's hot. Stupid hot. Fuck you hot. You don't know the depths of sweaty Mark until you've seen him in Thailand. Unreal. Yet, oddly enough, I'm not really bothered by it. My body feels amazing. Limber. Fluid. (Though I cannot say I wear the heat particularly well, as I've caught glimpses of my reflection and at times am reminded of the ending scene in the first Indiana Jones movie. Clearly, I did not close my eyes when they opened the ark.)  I feel like I'm getting a crazy good workout every time I walk outside, which is good because I haven't stopped eating. Holy shit, I can't. Meats on sticks, bowls of Thai matzah ball soup, noodles, rice, curry. Everything is so flavorful. Not sure how fat you can get eating a thai diet, but I suppose I'm gonna find out.

After four days of choking down noxious fumes and paying round-eye prices, I headed south to the Samui archipelago in the Gulf of Thailand to relax on Koh Samui. Depending on which part of the island, Samui is alternately overrun with shopping centers and luxury hotels and blokes drinking beer in British-style pubs OR lush and fecund with rolling, verdant hills and fields. I opted for the latter, setting in a bungalow on the beach in Maenam, the low-key part of the island. I spent my first full day taking in the sights, hoping from beach to beach on a motorbike wearing my orange wicker shirt tied around my neck like a cape, a straw cowboy hat, and a dangling Marlboro (just out there shattering stereotypes about Americans, to be sure). Today, I joined a boat tour to An Thong National Marine Park, a lush, dense group of 40 or so smaller islands that was once a haven for pirates but is now a government protected park of coral reef, white sand beaches, limestone caves and rain forest. I took a strenuous hike up one of the peaks overlooking the gulf, then went spelunking in the caves, and swam in the warm, emerald green water. Amazing day! I'm going to relax for a couple more days and then head to the southeastern side of Koh Tao (in the same island chain as Samui), where it's quiet, remote and with some of the best snorkeling in the area. Then I'm heading north to Chang Mai to check out mountains.

Overall, I'm having an amazing time, my dearies. Been writing like a muthafucka. Been enjoying myself and saying yes as much as my heart allows. Thinking of you all and sending lots of love.

-Mark

P.S. special shout out to Margo and her hypnotherapy cd. Flights were no problem. Choppy and bumpy for hours on end, but I did fine.

Dear Patrick

Dear Patrick,

I am stunned and saddened by the news of your passing. That it had long been rumored does little to quell my grief, and I find myself feeling pensive and nostalgic. Though you are no longer among us in physical form, I take solace in knowing you survive in the hearts and minds of all who are familiar with your work and appreciate your myriad contributions to the collective human experience.

Wherever they talk of the 50-year storm and speak in hushed tones about the system that kills the human spirit, vowing not to spend their days inching their way along the freeway in metal coffins; wherever spinning pottery devolves into tawdry love making; wherever chiseled, steely-eyed men rip out the throats of foes with their bare hands; wherever they refuse to put Baby in a corner; wherever ragtag groups of teenage rebels rumble against rival gangs of privileged young toughs or resist invading Russo-Cuban armies, you, Patrick Wayne Swayze, live on, your legacy having been inextricably woven into the historical tapestry of this country, moving us to dream, to thought, to action through the courage of your conviction.

No, you did not make dancing or mullets or wistful love ballads any cooler. And we all have our “To Wong Foo” moments. But that hardly matters. This is a love letter. I prefer to remember you as I first saw you:

Shot through the gut, your life slowly draining from your body, cradling a mortally wounded Charley Sheen in your arms, two young brothers dying heroically on a park bench in the snow, the commandant of the communistic invaders, his revolver trained on you both, letting his weapon fall to his side, having finally grasped the enormity of the moment and the triumph of the human spirit against seemingly insurmountable odds.

You will be missed. You will not be forgotten.